


Kleptolagnia

by Seanymphe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Step-parents, canon has no power here, i dont know how to express how little canon matters to me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:08:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28906857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seanymphe/pseuds/Seanymphe
Summary: What begins as a game of cat and mouse between Tom and his step mother spirals into something neither of them can control.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 15
Kudos: 45





	Kleptolagnia

It hadn't started this way.

To be fair, it never does, though the question of whether or not he should have known better was rendered irrelevant by the reality.

No one starts out an addict.

Sure, maybe you're genetically predisposed, or you've got some impulse control issues, or maybe you're just going through a rough time. But none of that matters, not in the long run, because you're not an addict until you are. And when you're not an addict, it's exhilarating. It's all fun and games. You can stop at any time. You're just doing it because you like it, _because you're not an addict_.

Until you're not anymore.

Maybe you still like it. Maybe you don't. Maybe it's still giving you that same rush it did before. Maybe it's not. Your feelings on the matter no longer hold any weight. Now it's different, no matter how you feel about it.

Now you can't stop.

Not if you wanted to. Not even if you tried.

The core of addiction is its priority. When you're an addict, that's all there is. Nothing will ever come before your addiction. Not your education. Not your job. Not your friends or family. Nothing. Addiction is a necessity, a raw desperation, that takes precedence over all else.

It hurts. It burns in your chest, sears through your veins, and gnaws into your stomach like nothing but a sickness can. Not like the flu and not like pneumonia, you don't hold onto hope that it'll get better, that you just need to wait it out. You don't even think about that. You can't. Waiting it out isn't an option, just ask it.

That is, of course, exceedingly inconvenient. And shameful, embarrassing, and in many cases, outright disgusting. Bosses don't care if you're an addict when they fire you for misconduct. Friends get tired of lending favors. Even families can only take so much. It infects all that it touches, and it touches _everything_ \- ruining relationships, shredding ambitions, draining bank accounts, filling prison cells. Addiction, in all its forms, leaves a trail of chaos in its wake.

Sometimes, its chemical. Drugs, withdrawal, rehab, relapse. Everyone knows about that merry-go-round. But you can become addicted to almost anything. Food, sex, theft, pain - even a person. It's all the same chemical reaction. The same dopamine rush. The same resounding _need_.

And sometimes, it's not just the life of the addict that's destroyed.

It's everyone else's.

* * *

**May, 2017**

Having half expecting to see his dorm occupied when he came back that evening, Tom was quite pleased to see his roommate had left early. Dropping his backpack beside his desk, he plopped himself onto the bed, pulling his phone from his pocket. It took him only two taps of his fingers to pull up Hermione's number.

_I'm coming home for the weekend._

While he knew what he expected from initiating the conversation - her to call and offer him a ride - he also knew that Hermione wasn't the type to always have her phone close by(or the type to pick up the phone at all, for that matter; on more than one occasion he'd seen her sit and watch the phone ring). Though he knew he could always call Frank, there's only so much small talk one can handle and Tom couldn't say he was in any mood to fake interest in the bloom cycles of lilies, or how to remove rust without damaging surrounding varnish.

Instead, he checked the train schedule for the rest of the night.

There was no backing out now - he'd already sent the text - and despite what they say about rich kids, he'd never much minded public transport.

The last train back to Great Hangleton left in just over fifty minutes, and from there it'd be easy to get a cab. If Hermione didn't text him back within twenty minutes, he decided he'd grab his backpack and walk.

He still felt inadvertently pleased with himself when his phone chimed after only three minutes of waiting.

**Are you sure that's a good idea?**

**Your father's out of town.**

_Until next Thursday. I'm aware._

After only a moment of consideration, he added,

_I want to see you._

If she didn't appreciate the boldness, it didn't matter; he was coming home either way.

**Do you need me to call Frank and ask him to come get you?**

_No_

_I'm taking the train_.

It was damn well obvious he'd not be taking the train, and he knew it, because her next message would undoubtedly say,

**Do you want me to come and get you instead?**

**It's almost dark.**

**I don't want you out there alone.**

_Okay._

_Are you at home?_

**Yes.**

_Are you alone?_

**I'll be there in a few hours.**

Not bothering to hide his smirk in the solitude of his room, he shoved his phone back in his pocket. Glancing to his discarded backpack, he decided there'd be no point in packing. He'd only be gone a few days - he did still have class, and even if he skipped Monday, he couldn't pretend it was a good idea to miss all through Thursday. And, either way, he still had clothes at home.

With a final check of the time, he decided to jump into the shower.

* * *

**June, 2014**

Tom had never considered being around his father to be a particularly enjoyable experience.

The man had always made it clear that he didn't want his son, that he saw his child as a burden, and that the only reason he even kept custody was because it'd tarnish the family reputation to have an abandoned heir(and, as he so often liked to say, "in this day and age, dirt never stays under the rug").

His disdain was further demonstrated by his strict policy of keeping Tom as far from home as possible, as much as could be managed. He went to boarding school. He went to summer camp. If he got expelled or kicked out, as had happened several times since he'd reached school-going age, his father would stay up making as many calls, paying as many fines, and calling in as many favors as he had to, making sure the son was gone and replaced within the week.

In the brief periods between being shuffled around, Tom stayed with his grandparents at home. During those weeks, he hardly saw his father(conveniently, business trips were nearly always scheduled during these times), let alone spoke to the man.

And of the few moments Tom would spend with him, they were decidedly unpleasant.

When the school year ended and he was picked up not by Frank Bryce, the caretaker of the Riddle family home, but by his father himself, Tom knew the drive home(if he could even assume they were, in fact, going home) would be worse than he'd become accustomed to. Fingers twitching restlessly against the interior of the car, he grit his teeth in determined ignorance.

Though his father broke the silence, he offered little explanation for the oddity of the situation. "You'll be staying home this summer."

Leaning back against the leather of the passenger seat, the son didn't even bother to look over. "And where will you be going?"

"Nowhere." At that, he was surprised enough to actually turn, giving the conversation his full attention. "I met someone," his father continued, "last year, while you were at school."

"Not surprising," Tom drawled, unamused even despite his wary curiosity, "You travel. When are you _not_ meeting people?"

As though his son had said nothing at all, the man continued, "I want her to marry me. I didn't exactly propose, per se, but I did broach the topic."

For once, Tom did not have any comeback or smart remark whatsoever.

While his typical reaction to anything that didn't affect him was boredom, there had to be a catch here. Something he wasn't seeing yet. Surely his father hadn't come all this way just to share the joyous news. It wasn't unusual for Riddle Senior to date, but it was by all means unusual for any relationship he had to last longer than a few months - ironically, the longest relationship he'd been in had been with Merope, Tom's mother, which'd been exclusively out of social obligation, hardly qualified as a relationship at all, and had ended very …abruptly, for lack of a better word.

"She's…" the man paused, thinking over his words before deciding on, " _concerned_ that I don't spend enough time with you. Of course, I told her that family is very important to me, that's why we keep my parents at home. But no, she was concerned about _you_."

There was no mistaking the bitterness in his tone.

"She works for that nonprofit we collaborated with a few years ago - the one for institutionalized children. She's worrying that a 'lack of stability and strong family support system' might be causing you to act out."

Letting out a tired sigh, he continued, "'course, if she knew you, she'd know what a crock of shite that is. But you know, can't argue with women."

"Of course not," Tom replied coolly, "all you can do is sign a DNR while they're in childbirth."

That remark earned him a stern look, but nothing more. "You're going to stay home this summer. You're going to play nice with Hermione. You are not going to try and upset her in any way. You are _not_ going to mention even a single word about your mother."

Catching that her name was Hermione, he duly noted the information.

"At the end of the summer, you're going to pack up and go back to Durmstrung. And tonight, you're coming to dinner with us so she can meet you. Wear something nice."

* * *

**May, 2017**

Seeing her car pull up, Tom wasted no time in hauling himself from the bench he'd waited at. Sliding into the passenger seat as quickly as he was able, he gave her no opportunity to change her mind.

She still drove _her_ car - the junky one she'd bought with the money she earned working retail in college. It was old, engine sputtering as she drove, and the fabric interior lining had been stained by years of wear. Still, it was clean, well loved, and always picked over any of the shiny new ones his father insisted on buying her.

There was probably a point to that. Something about individuality and integrity. Something that was complete and utter bullshite, but that she'd use to justify her insistent refusal of her husband's affection.

"How are you?" Carefully, he extended his hand to rest against her thigh. Even with the barrier of her jeans, he felt her twitch. Stiffen.

He ignored it.

Despite having half her face hidden behind a pair of oversized sunglasses, he could tell she looked like shite. Well, not like shite, but not like _the_ Mrs Riddle should. That's probably what the sunglasses were for, actually - it was late enough she hardly needed them. Judging by the look of her, she'd not been expecting to see anyone - her hair had been messily restrained, her skin(what he could see of it, anyways) was bare, and her usual business casual dress had been swapped for a baggy, ripped pair of jeans, scruffy boots, and an old, oversized t-shirt from a band he'd never heard of.

Still, it didn't slip his notice that the tennis bracelet he'd given her for her birthday the first year they'd met sat heavy on her wrist.

"Fine," she answered. Clipped. Rough. Though her head didn't turn, he thought he saw a bit of movement from the corner of her eye.

Maybe the sunglasses were multipurpose.

Inching his hand up her thigh, he stopped when she reached out, halting him.

He understood.

_Wait._

Retreating, his fingers found purchase in a particularly patchy spot in her jeans, wedging themselves through the torn fabric. Her skin was warm, soft against his fingertips.

Looking down for a second too long to be just taking notice, she sighed, but voiced no complaints.

* * *

**June, 2014**

Though he had approximately an hour between their arrival back home and when he was told to be ready for dinner reservations, Tom spent exactly none of it bothering to find an outfit his father would consider acceptable. Instead, he took the time to rummage through the man's social media to discover everything he could about this _Hermione_ character.

It didn't take long to find her. As usual, his father loved to brag and had been all too eager to post about his young, shiny, new toy.

Hermione Jean Granger.

A quick Google search told him that she worked with the Patronus Association, an organization dedicated to protecting the rights and ensuring the welfare of children under the guardianship of the crown. A few years back, his father's company had donated to them, made a big deal out of it, and without a doubt earned themselves some solid PR. Presumably, that's where they'd met.

Next, he checked the linked social media accounts found on his father's page. While her Facebook was set mostly private, her Instagram wasn't.

Just for the record, if you really want to get to know someone, social media isn't the place to start. Because, for all it's worth, it's a lie. It's scripted, edited, managed. Fake.

That being said, it is an informative lie. It tells you not what people have and not who they are, but what they want.

When a man posts a video of himself playing the guitar, it shows not that he has talent but that he seeks recognition. As a woman pins scenes of smiling couples holding hands, it shows not how her husband has been cheating on her with his secretary, but that she dreams of a blissful marriage. If an influencer sits on the floor, throws on a grey hooded sweatshirt, and cries in front of the camera, it shows not that they have remorse but that they want pity.

Hermione's social media was infinitely more interesting than his father's, if only for the reason that it was not at all what he'd been expecting. There were no pictures of white sand beaches, shopping bags, or fancy cars. The only pictures depicting a life a luxury were the ones she'd taken with his father, usually limited to candlelit dinners with glasses of wine; treated occasions, not the usual. Not only that - she didn't look particularly happy in those pictures. Smile stiff and posture rigid, she looked as though she'd been posed for the camera.

She probably had been.

The rest of her pictures showed activist work, book recommendations, and several pictures of an oversized beast of a cat. A few friends, if you scrolled back far enough.

It was clear as day that she was his father's type only in that she was young and pretty.

Tom Riddle Senior was a man known to flaunt his wealth, never having complained of the type of woman attracted to such peacocking. That said, all these relationships had a predetermined end: as soon as the woman in question began seeking commitment. He'd explained very briefly the summer his son had turned fourteen that the women he typically dated were just that - dates. Fun to play with and a good waste of pocket change, but never to be trusted with company finances.

It went without saying that the man had up to this point been content with the life of a bachelor.

Just as Tom was scrolling even further, his phone chimed with a text from his father's number, pointedly left unsaved in his contacts.

**She's here. We're leaving in five minutes.**

Throwing off the jumper he had on, he tied his shoes and left the room in a white t-shirt and a pair of black jeans.

* * *

As he descended the stairs, he heard a female voice he could only assume belonged to the woman he'd spent the past hour researching. If he slowed and quieted his steps a bit, it was merely out of curiosity.

"You look so tense," she hushed, tone gentle, soothing. Tom nearly rolled his eyes at the sound of it. "You can relax. It's just dinner with your son. You haven't seen him in a _year_ , it'll be good to catch up."

From where he stood on the stairs, still concealed by the walls, he heard his father scoff. "I'd rather it just be dinner with _you_. I told you - this is only going to confuse him. He and I have an arrangement. He's closer to his grandparents and we both like it better that way."

Technically speaking, it wasn't a lie(aside from the comment about this pisspoor attempt at connection 'confusing' him - he had a very clear understanding of what this was, thank you very much). He and his father did have an unspoken arrangement to interact as little as possible, and he was closer to his grandparents if only for the reason that he'd felt no passive and yet ever present feeling of loathing towards them.

"Then you'll have the whole summer to set him straight, won't you?"

A sigh was quickly followed by, "I couldn't set that kid straight if I had an entire lifetime. You don't know him."

Voice lifting just slightly, she optimistically replied, "and by the sound of it, I'd say you don't either."

Having heard enough, Tom finished his descent into the dining room only to be immediately greeted by the sight of his father, hands placed gently on his girlfriend's waist. She'd wrapped hers over his shoulders, fingers threading affectionately through his hair.

_How cute._

Though sneering internally, he kept his thoughts to himself as the couple became aware of his presence.

Tom Senior's scowl was made all the more prominence next to his girlfriend's beaming smile. Whereas she removed her hands from his person, he tightened his grip.

"I thought I told you we were going out tonight," he said, clearly displeased by his son's attire. "This isn't the kind of place you wear a t-shirt to, Tom. We discussed this."

It'd hardly qualified as a discussion.

Giving a careless shrug, Tom shoved his hands into his pockets. "I can always stay here, if you'd like."

Predictably, the arm candy objected. "No, no, it's quite alright. We can always go to the Three Broomsticks - they're family friendly. And much more laid back." Ignoring the displeasure of the man holding her, she stepped out of the possessive grip and closer to the son, extending a hand.

Tom stared at it for a moment before the irritable sound of his father's clearing throat prompted him to take it.

"I've heard so much about you," she exclaimed, shaking her grip with unnerving enthusiasm. "Your father has told me so much-"

He seriously doubted that.

"- Your grandparents too, over the last year and I've been so anxious - excited, anxious, not nervous - to finally put the face to the name. I'm-"

"Hermione," he cut her off, pulling his hand away even as she continued attempting to yank at it. As discreetly as possible, he wiped it off against his trouser leg. "So I've been told."

"We're not going to the Three Broomsticks," his father interjected, stepping forward. "I made reservations, and we're keeping them. Tom, throw on a jacket and let's go. There should be a few extras in the coat closet."

Waving dismissively to his son, Riddle Senior grabbed the car keys from the dining room table and pulled his date back to him. Though they both knew he wanted Tom to throw on a blazer, there was no argument made when a leather jacket was pulled out instead.

Despite the man's obvious impatience, Hermione made sure to wait for Tom before following out the door.

* * *

**May, 2017**

As soon as she set her keys down on the kitchen counter, he struck.

Reaching for her with no hesitation, he slammed her into the countertop. As her hip made contact with the marble, she let out something between a yelp and a moan. Whatever it was, it only encouraged him. Hiking his hands under her thighs, he roughly deposited her onto the stone.

Any further noises she made were smothered as their lips met.

There were no manners and no precision in the way he kissed her - or, for that matter, in the way she kissed back. It was desperate. Needy. Neither of those were adjectives he liked to apply to himself, but he couldn't deny that's how it felt, and it soothed his ego to feel her reacting with equal vigor.

With a soft gasp, she pulled back, hands anchored on his shoulders. His face turned, pressing into the crook of her neck. Inhaling, he allowed himself the luxury of taking his time.

"Wait," she breathed, "we're not home alone."

Grinning against her throat, he replied, "you'll just have to be quiet then, won't you?"

She wouldn't be. He'd make sure of it.

His hands moved to the hem of her shirt, sliding under. "Or not. Truthfully, Thomas is half deaf and Mary has grown quite forgetful in her age. You could probably moan my name and they'd be none the wiser. Even if they suspect, they'd do nothing but forget by the time he gets home."

Fingers having long since memorized the feel of her skin, he followed the count of her ribs, reveling in her responsive shivers.

In his head, the scene was perfect - her, back arched and head thrown back, moaning _his_ name. From the experiences he had with her in the past, he knew that she was more the type to curse than to moan - most of the time she played her part proper, but here, for him, her mouth was utterly foul - but he figured a few well placed fingers, and maybe a tongue, might be enough to coax it out of her.

She didn't like to say it. Other times, other places, she would. But not here. He knew why, but that's exactly why he needed to hear it in the first place. He needed her to take that hand-me-down name and steal it away, make it new, make it his.

"Shut up," she growled, nails clawing against his shoulders. "Don't make me change my mind."

Swiftly, he reached down again to pull the shirt clean off. With her now bare, exposed except for her thin, unlined bra, he ran one hand up the center of her torso, over her chest, and then up the column of her throat until he reached her jaw. Gripping it firmly, he angled it towards him and pressed his lips against hers once more.

For the moment, he was content to allow himself to be fully immersed in the moment. Releasing her jaw, he let his hand fall back to her throat. This time, his grip tensed not out of desperation and not as a threat, but just because he liked the feel of her pulse under his fingertips. It was steady. Grounding.

He let his other hand wander.

Part of being an addict is knowing that you're ruining everything, and yet being unable to stop.

You know your grandmother needs her pain pills, and you think about it as you swipe them anyways. You know your friend is really crunched for cash, but you beg them to lend to you regardless of the fact. 'Their parents always help them out,' you say. 'They'll be fine.' You don't know if they will be, but if they aren't, well that's not your fault is it? It is, and deep down you know that, but you ignore it, smothering it down and snuffing it out because you don't have a choice.

Hand finding the fly of her jeans, he made quick work of unbuttoning them, pulling the zipper, and then eagerly dipping his fingers inside. As the pads of his fingers met slippery flesh, he grinned against her lips.

"You're wet."

* * *

**June, 2014**

Tom couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten dinner with his father. Though Thomas and Mary liked to take him out during his summers home, their son preferred to be absent for those occasions.

Once, when he was eleven, Riddle Senior had taken him along to some business conference - apparently little boys wearing fancy suits makes for a good photo, which of course makes for good PR - and afterwards, on the way home, they'd gone to a sit down restaurant. A little diner, it was hardly anything fancy, but it wasn't takeout or a fast food drive thru.

His father had ordered the hostess to assign them separate booths, but regardless.

At the time, he'd taken the opportunity to get everything that even remotely caught his attention on the menu. A full appetizer platter, a milkshake in each flavor, two soft drinks, and three entrées(all with different sides). He ate about three bites of each.

Looking over the menu now, in this posh London restaurant, he thought the diner had had a preferable selection.

Just because food is expensive, photographed in low light, and labeled gourmet, doesn't mean it's good. There's no reason a menu needs eight different cuts of beef that all taste the same, or a dozen salads that differ only in their selection of random fruit and side dressing. And the wine selection(not that he was old enough to order any, but he still looked) was even worse - half of those weren't even in English.

Hermione seemed equally disinterested with the menu, allowing her date to order for her. "Whatever you think I'd like," she said, "I trust your judgement."

It didn't take even a minute after the orders had been taken for things to get uncomfortable.

Following a delicate sip of her champagne, she leaned forward to focus all her attention on the unwilling third wheel. "You just finished year twelve, right?"

Tom nodded. She probably thought she was being considerate, polite, by forcibly including him. He disagreed.

"Have you thought about college at all? Any plans for after you finish school?"

Though he opened his mouth to answer, his father beat him to it.

"We've been in contact with a few American schools. It'd be best to get him in as a business major."

Turning, she nodded enthusiastically at the interruption, no doubt an attempt to prevent wounding any egos, before focusing back on Tom. "Is that what you're interested in? Business?"

His eyes narrowed. "If I need to be."

After a few perplexed blinks, she went back to her drink.

The rest of dinner continued in a similar manner, Hermione assaulting him with pointless questions while his father irritability fought for her attention. It was unnecessary, _annoying_ , but it was annoying his father too, so for the time being Tom decided to hold onto that silver lining.

"That's fascinating," he said, leaning forward.

It wasn't. At all. Truthfully, he hadn't even been listening. Watching his ice cubes melt was more riveting than whatever it was she was going on about - history, he thought. Something about the evolution of child welfare laws, maybe. Regardless, it was boring.

Looking up, he gave her a soft smirk. "Can I ask you something?" he asked, tone just barely erring on the side of naughty, like it was a secret just between the two of them - women eat that shite up. "Something a bit personal."

Despite his father's clear agitation, she nodded brightly.

"Has my father already told you that he wants to marry you?"

Though he already knew the answer, his father _had_ told him earlier, he asked anyways. Just to stir the pot a little, just to see what would happen.

Instantly, she deflated, squirming in her seat with discomfort.

Riddle Senior cleared his throat, interjecting with, "You don't have to answer that. He's just being -"

"No, no, it's alright," she countered, gently removing the hand that'd been placed protectively on her shoulder. Turning back to the son, her expression was suddenly less that of an excitable schoolgirl and more of a solemn professional. "Yes, we've discussed it."

Arching a brow, he was admittedly somewhat surprised by her shifting demeanor. Still, he didn't relent. "So, you've turned him down, then? And yet you're still here?"

" _Tom!_ "

The angry scolding of his father was unable to penetrate the conversation.

Hermione leaned forward, shoulders squared with forced confidence. Assertive - neither provocative nor meek, and no doubt something she'd had to learn. "As I said, we've discussed it. Marriage isn't a decision to be made lightly, and we're working to get to a point where we're both confident the time is right."

Nodding sympathetically, he replied, "That's good to hear. I'm glad to know you're being so responsible about it. Truthfully, I was quite worried, when he told me."

Visibly, she softened. "That's understandable. I know it can be quite overwhelming, for all of us, and that's part of why we're taking it slow."

Shaking his head, he countered, "No, it's not that. It wouldn't make too much of a difference to me either way, you see, I'm hardly around," frowning, tight lipped, he continued, "It's just that, up to this point, I've always been under the impression that child brides are illegal in England."

With the shock dawning on her face, he smiled innocently. "Now, I'd hardly notice if dad took an _extended vacation_ , but it'd put an awful ugly stain on the company I plan to inherit. Surely, you understand."

 _That_ seemed to be the tipping point.

Tom Riddle Senior was a man too well bred to raise his voice in public. If the Riddle family valued one thing, it was money. Reputation, however, was a close second. They liked to be known for their manners, their hospitality, their graciousness - their _class._

That's part of why he was so insistent that the son be kept away.

Regardless, there are standards for being classy - rules. You can yell at your son all you like behind closed doors. You may berate him for his existence, remind him he is the unwanted, accidental offspring of a drug addicted whore, but only if you're sure no one else is around to hear.

In a crowded restaurant, the most you can do is abruptly rise from your seat, hissing, "We're leaving. _Now._ "

Hermione's response surprised the both of them.

"No."

Reaching out with misplaced authority, she firmly guided him back into his seat. Though not looking comfortable by any means, he seemed to trust the grounding hand placed over his shoulder.

Head tilting just slightly, Tom watched the scene with a newfound fascination.

No one likes to say it, because no one wants to imply Freud was right(he wasn't), but one thing is undeniably true: for the average man, the perfect partner is a woman who will love and care for him unconditionally like his mother, while still fucking him as he likes. They're weak, desiring the illusion of control, "feeling like a man," while simultaneously needing someone else to be the backbone.

With sudden clarity, he understood exactly what it was about this woman that appealed to his father.

"Now, let's all just calm down," she said, more to her date than his son, "and see this for what it is: an opportunity to communicate. Maturely." With the last word, her gaze fixed pointedy on the latter.

Not bothering to hold back the eyeroll, he still caught the way her grip tightened against his father's shoulder.

"Tom, do you have something you'd like to say?"

Narrowing his eyes, he folded his arms across his chest. "No. I think I just about covered it."

"Are you sure about that?" Her gaze was firm. Challenging.

"Yes."

"Then can I say something?"

He scoffed. "By the looks of it, I'd say I couldn't stop you if I tried."

Ignoring the snark, she continued, "I understand that your relationship with you father hasn't been the best-"

Understatement of the century.

"And I understand if having a new person around feels intrusive or overwhelming-"

It was neither. Really, he just enjoyed antagonizing his sperm donor.

"But this is not the way to go about it."

It seemed to be working just fine to him.

"For the time being, you can take some comfort in knowing that nothing is set in stone except that we're going to take the summer to work on this. Once you get to know each other, I'm sure you two'll find you have more in common than you realize."

Doubtful, but he didn't object. Glancing blankly between the couple across from him, he nodded slowly, curious to see where this would lead. His father seemed positively smug by that, almost making him reconsider the preformative compliance, but he didn't. Instead, he reached out for his water glass just for the sake of having something to do.

"And, just for the record, I'm twenty-five. I'm not a teenager. I'm not even a college student. Please don't imply such hurtful things about your father."

Not old enough to be his mother, but just young enough to be his sister. Gross.

"Okay," he conceded, insincere as ever.

Taking a sip of his water, he watched the couple in front of him like a scientist watches a rat run through a maze.

* * *

**May, 2017**

Lowering his hands to the backs of her thighs, he lifted her in one motion, carrying and promptly depositing her on the nearby table.

"You said we need to be quiet," she breathed, lifting her hips to allow him to relieve her of the constricting clothes.

"I said _you_ need to be quiet," he answered, pulling her hips to the edge of the table, quickly pressing her shoulders back and spreading her like an offering. When she tried to sit up, he pushed her back down. "Stay."

Defiant, she shoved his hand off her and sat up again.

Though he debated whether to respond by audibly banging against the table, or by forcibly holding her down - or both, maybe, that might work too - he changed his mind as she reached back behind her, unclipping and then discarding the bra.

This time, she relented when he pressed firmly on her sternum, settling back against the wood.

"Remember," he mocked, dropping to his knees and pressing his lips to the bone of her hip, "you have to be quiet."

Wasting no time, he eagerly began.

When his tongue immediately sought her clit, she gasped, jerking at the contact. Never one to do things by half, he slammed his forearm down against her hips, holding them in place. It was almost surprising how responsive he was; part of him wondered if his father even _knew_ where she needed to be touched, but he quickly silenced the thought. In this moment, she was _his_ , not his father's, not anyone else's.

As if to demonstrate, his hand slid up her thigh, then higher. Pushing two fingers inside, he flexed against her walls even as his mouth continued its assault.

Gasping, her back arched. " _Fuck._ "

Thumb replacing his tongue, he pulled back, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of her thigh. "What happened to being quiet?"

Squirming, she bucked her hips into his hand as much as his hold would allow. "Please," she whined, " _fuck_ , _please_."

It wasn't his name, but he did so love it when she begged.

Lowering his mouth again, he relented with the knowledge that he was nowhere near done. One way or another, he'd coax it out of her.

Removing his hand, he shifted his hold to the edge of her thigh, using his thumb to part her. With her most sensitive spot so thoroughly exposed, he was relentless, circling firmly with his tongue, sucking greedily with his lips.

Accidentally nipping when she moved too much for his liking.

The resounding yelp went ignored as he continued his task, holding her even more firmly as she began to shake.

She was close. That much was obvious. If it weren't for the shaking, twitching, or the way she was literally dripping down onto the table below, the way her cursing became all the more repetitive, a constant stream of _fuck, fuck, fuck_ , and whimpered _please_ 's was proof enough.

But she wasn't allowed to be done. Not yet.

Though he didn't pull away entirely, he slowed, easing the pressure just enough to drive her mad.

She knew what she needed to do. He could be patient if he had to be.

Reaching down, her hand sought out his own before clasping it firmly, desperate. As much as she could, she propped up to look at him, eyes shining, pleading. Twisting his wrist to thread his fingers through her own, his thumb rubbed reassuringly over her skin.

" _Tom, please._ "

He couldn't deny her after that.

Even as her back arched, gasps rendering any attempts to form further words incoherent, even as she shook so violently the table moved with her, even as the tennis bracelet on her wrist scratched against the wood, he didn't once let go of her hand.

Not even when her wedding ring began to dig into his skin so hard it hurt.

* * *

**June, 2014**

Before it'd even started, Tom knew that dinner would be long, boring, and all around unpleasant, but following that little spark of excitement, it really began to slow.

Hermione continued the conversation as though nothing had happened, resuming her obnoxious interrogation and wordy rambling. His father, not coincidentally, looked all too pleased by it, pulling her chair closer, resting his hand over her knee, calling the waiter, repeatedly, to refill her champagne if she so much as took a sip from it.

And of course, looking back to his son again and again with that stupid, smug, shiteating grin all over his face.

It was intolerable.

Clearing his throat, Tom interjected, "if you'll excuse me, I need to use the restroom."

Unsuspecting, and perhaps pleased by how surprisingly respectful he was being, they both nodded.

Following the route he'd noticed the waiters taking, he discreetly managed to slip out a backdoor near the kitchen and onto the streets of London. Pulling out his phone, he checked first the battery percentage, and then the time. By his estimation, he'd have approximately fifteen minutes before they began wondering where he went - twenty, if he were being generous - and he intended to take full advantage.

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, he set off.

It wasn't like he was running away. Eventually, they'd either find him, call the police, or he'd call Frank to come pick him up. He just didn't want to be there anymore.

All cities have "good" neighborhoods and "bad" neighborhoods, and even in big cities, the difference between the two is usually only a few minutes walk.

Though the streets that stayed closer to the main city roads were safer, Tom was confident with the pocket knife he had on him and opted to turn a few more dimly lit corners, ending up in a darker, more run down part of town. The windows weren't boarded up, and there weren't any blood stains on the cement, but Knockturn Alley had never been known for its pleasant atmosphere - It was known primarily for its perverse sex shops, sleazy liquor stores, and filthy bars, though it had a few antique shops too.

Finding a seat on the steps leading into Borgin and Burkes, one of the aforementioned antique shops, Tom checked his phone again.

Three texts. Two from the dismally recognizable unsaved number, and one from Frank.

**Where are you?**

And then, sent ten minutes later,

**This is the last straw. Consider every privilege you've ever had gone.**

The one from Frank, Tom didn't even bother opening. He knew what it'd say - something like,

**Your father's real worried about you, kid. Can you tell me where you are? I can come get you. Don't do anything stupid.**

Relocking his phone, he put it away and pulled out a half empty pack of cigarettes. Though the lighter he had on him was nearly dead - and the wind certainly didn't help - he managed to get it lit with a few tries and only minimal cursing.

With a steady inhale, he let the burning of the smoke in his lungs calm him before releasing it.

Inhale, exhale. Rinse, repeat.

He almost didn't notice the clicking of heels nearby.

"Those'll kill you, you know."

Not bothering to look up - he didn't need to to recognize the voice that'd been tormenting him all evening - he rolled his eyes and took another drag. "Because no one's ever told me that before."

Hearing her step closer, he turned.

Either from the wind or the humidity, her curls had begun to frizz out of their restraints. Whereas in the beginning of the evening, they'd been neatly pinned, they now fell insistently into her face even as she uselessly pushed them back. "Your father's driving around," she said, "looking for you. He's worried."

Angry, not worried, but they both knew that, so he didn't bother correcting her on the semantics.

"And he let you walk out here to find me? By yourself, at night, wearing that?"

Nodding towards her dress, he gave her a skeptical look. The hem hit at mid thigh, far from cheeky, but the red fabric clung to her frame in a way that was undeniably appealing. Not too tight, proper without being prudish, but it left just enough to the imagination.

Compared to the other women his father had broughten home, she certainly had more class. Though, he supposed she'd have to, if marriage was actually being considered.

Still not the kind of thing that's safe for a woman whose had champagne to be wearing out alone, and _certainly_ not in Knockturn Alley.

"He doesn't own me," she answered, raising her chin.

_Oh, but he wants to._

Putting out his cigarette, Tom shook his head with a half hidden smirk. "Alright."

Frowning, she crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm not joking, and I'm not stupid," she persisted, "I respect his opinion, but ultimately my will is my own. We'd not have gotten this far if he didn't know that."

Tilting his head, he loftily replied, "I'm not arguing."

Rather than wait for a reply, he changed the topic. "How'd you know where to find me?"

Shrugging, she answered, "Intuition." At his look of skepticism, she amended, "I guessed you went out the back, because I didn't see you leave - yes, I was looking. Then, I guessed that you probably didn't want to be found right away, meaning it'd be illogical to take the better lit roads, because you'd know we were looking, and we'd be able to spot you right away. And when I got here, well, then I called Frank and asked him to check the location on your phone."

Both annoyed with himself for forgetting to turn that off, and impressed with her for utilizing it, he hummed in acknowledgment. "And my father isn't here yet because…?"

Averting her gaze, her cheeks began to flush. "I _may_ have implied that your father was with me … _but_ _only_ because the tension is clearly running high right now, and I don't want either of you to say anything you can't take back."

It was a few years too late for that.

Still.

Following her guilty confession, she abruptly asked, "Is it alright if I join you?"

Seeing no reason besides misplaced spite to keep her standing there, he scooted over to the other end of the step. "You're not gonna call him?"

"In a few minutes. Not yet."

"Why?"

"Because I want to make sure you're alright, first." She looked sincere. Sympathetic.

He scoffed. "I'm fine."

"Are you, though?" Resting her hand in her chin, she said, "I know you've been on your own a lot. Your whole life, practically."

"And?"

"And you shouldn't have to be. I…" she paused, shaking her head before continuing with, "I've heard a lot about you. I know that's not the same as knowing you, but it's something. I know you've gotten into a lot of trouble, but you're smart. Maybe too smart for your own good. And I don't think you're broken, but everyone can always do better."

Though he nearly pointed out the irony in her saying that, for the time being he held his tongue.

"And, ultimately, I just want to help you."

The cliche of it all was gritting, almost painful. Reflexively, he snapped, "I don't want your help."

"I know. But I'm offering it anyways."

Cut off by the buzzing of her phone, she pulled it up.

Of course, it was 'Tom.'

Luckily, it was only a text.

"I told him where we are," she said, locking and flipping it over before turning back to him, "he'll be here in a few minutes."

"Splendid."

For a moment, it was quiet, the only sound between them the rustling of the city, until she hesitantly spoke up. "Can I give you my number? Just in case you need it?"

Tossing the cigarette butt vaguely in the direction of the street, he answered, "You can give me whatever you want, but that doesn't mean I'll take it. And I'm not handing you my phone. So if you've got a pen, and you're fine having your phone number dropped onto this very public and rather seedy street, then go ahead."

He wasn't sure what he expected. A frown, maybe. Or for her to visibly deflate, slacken like she had at dinner. Maybe a lecture she didn't have the authority to give.

What he hadn't expected was a sly smile. "Alright."

Rummaging through her purse, she pulled out a pen. He'd thought she'd keep digging, grab a receipt or a gum wrapper or something, and then actually write her number in some gutsy, idiotic attempt to prove a point. But no, then, she-

She reached over into his lap, grabbed his cigarette pack, and wrote her number on the inside of the top.

"Feel free to drop it," she said, grinning like a fox even as she leaned back into the steps.

* * *

Only a minute later, his father pulled up. The man didn't even bother to get out, honking the horn of the car like a child slamming a door.

Hermione got up first, prompting the son into the car before climbing into the front seat. The ride home was spent in palpable silence. No radio. No small talk. And, strangely enough, no yelling.

Just the sound of the engine and the rustling of fabric against leather as Riddle Senior reached over for his date, gripping her knee.

Tom watched them for a moment too long before turning to the window.

Kleptomania is a mental illness defined by recurrent, irresistible urges to steal without the motive of need or personal gain, and is most often accompanied by an overwhelming sense of guilt.

Despite what many have said, Tom was not a kleptomaniac. He didn't steal because he had to, or out of any compulsion, and he certainly didn't feel guilty about it. He stole because he wanted to. Because he liked it. Because he wanted to spite his victims. Whereas kleptomaniacs often discarded their stolen property once the thrill of the deed wore off, Tom held onto his trophies. Cherished them, even. Loved them as much as he'd ever loved anything. He kept every single one, even the broken, the useless, the worthless, just for the knowledge that he had them, and that his victims did not.

Back home, in the privacy of his room, he saved Hermione's number.

* * *

**May, 2017**

When the storm had calmed, he patiently ran his unoccupied fingers over her stomach, waiting for the rise and fall of her chest to even. With a final squeeze to her hand, he let go before getting up to retrieve her discarded clothes.

As he began to dress her, she pulled back. "But, you didn't-"

Shaking his head, he answered, "Later. Not here."

She frowned, seemingly displeased by his decision that _she_ needed to come undone in the middle of the kitchen table, where anyone could hear, where anyone could walk in and _see,_ but that he wanted to wait for the privacy of a bedroom.

It went without saying that she was missing the point entirely.

Thankfully, she didn't argue further as he returned to pushing her ankles through the tops of her bottoms, them guiding them up her legs. Lifting her hips, she allowed him to pull her knickers and jeans up without comment. Not bothering with the bra, he pushed the shirt over her head again before smoothing down her hair.

It didn't do much. As usual, her chaotic frizz was beyond being controlled, but it was the gesture that mattered.

Looking up, she wet her trembling lips. "What am I going to do?"

Placing his hand back under her jaw, he was less forceful this time as he held it in place, pressing his lips reassuringly to the crown of her head.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

He'd take care of everything.

And first, that meant he needed his father out of the way.

Because something can't be yours if it's still someone else's.


End file.
